Twelve Muggles
by RMoors
Summary: Twelve very different people united by one event, specifically Peter and Sirius's confrontation. This will be a series of insights into various characters, although the vast majority will be OCs but hopefully not in an annoying way. There may well be a couple of chapters of Sirius and Peter towards the end.
1. Chapter 1

_**Consider this disclaimed. **_

**1. Michael Kelton**

I studied myself in the mirror once more, standing tall and straight, shoulders back, head inclined I hoped sympathetically. Almost there. I furrowed my brow and turned my lips down very slightly. My eyes closed briefly, as though in pain. I opened them again and they connected with their reflection. Eye contact was vital at this point.

"I am so sorry for your loss, Mrs-" I glanced at the nearby form. "Richardson."

I tried again.

"I am so sorry for your loss, Mrs Richardson."

Almost right. I cleared my throat slightly. I'd try a deeper timbre perhaps, something more earnest, more stoic.

"I am so sorry for your loss, Mrs Richardson."

Yes, that would do. I would be the image of the sympathising boss. I'd tell her he was a good man. Always a hard worker, never kicked up a fuss. Of course it probably wasn't true, he would have gone on strike with the rest of them, but it wasn't my place to say and it wasn't the done thing to mention that sort of business at a funeral. Kind words were all that were needed. My appearance would be perfunctory, of course but it was something the company needed to do. Shows respect I suppose.

Illness was what took him apparently. Very sudden and very sad by all accounts. Left a couple of kids, grown up mind, and of course Mrs Richardson. I assume the children will come home and look after her. I hope so. It'll be a relentless winter otherwise. I suppose it'll be a relentless winter anyway.

I tightened my tie and straightened my collar. I'd do.

The journey to the station was relentless- driving wind and rain almost in the realms of hale. I'd long since put down my umbrella, fed up with the constant battle to stop it going inside out; I always lost. I tightened my coat and buttoned my collar against the autumnal battering but it did little good. Perfect funeral weather. Sunny funerals had always seemed slightly odd to me, like they ruined the mood somehow, took away the gravity of the event. When they stick me in the ground I want it as grim as possible, a truly funereal funeral, none of this celebratory nonsense. I want black and umbrellas and solemnity, perhaps a couple of weeping women, but nothing too dramatic. And I would like my mourners to convey the proper amount respectful sympathy to my grieving widow, whoever she may be. Mourners much like myself in fact.

It's wrong to dwell on it so much of course. A very morbid thing to do, certainly, but it can't be helped on the way to the funeral. It's basic nature. I wondered if Mr Richardson had thought about his funeral much. I'd imagine it's basic nature if you're on your way to death too. I hope he got what he wanted. If I'd known him, perhaps I'd be able to tell. There's definitely guilt in me about that. Not about whether his funeral is what he would have wanted, that would be silly, but not knowing him. I suppose it's my job not to know people though, keep an eye on the figures, who's turning up, who's not turning up, what our profit is… It's a job that distances you. Until someone dies that is, then someone must go down on behalf of the company to pay their respects. Sometimes it's me; sometimes it's some other unknown face. I doubt it's much help to the family. I sometimes feel it's made me detached to the point of cynicism. I think it probably has.

I think if someone I truly cared about died I'd be hard pressed to be comforted by a company representative, no matter how good they were at saying "I'm so sorry for your loss." I think I'd be sorely tempted to send them on their way. I'm surprised by how little that happens to me, considering how many of those men thought me, their superior, the enemy.

I was interrupted from my thoughts by the sound of shouting around the next corner. A couple of lads by the sound of it. It was too early for alcohol to be involved so it would probably be over a girl. Things hardly changed; I remember those fights from my youth. I got into a couple of scuffles over a girl. She was called Mary Clerkenwell and lived a couple of doors down. She was gorgeous; had a smile for everyone until you irritated her, then a temper like a dragon. Her cheeks would go pink and she'd get a fiery look in those deep brown eyes, and you'd know you were in trouble and you would love it. I think half the boys in the area were in love with her. I'd kissed her once, behind the bakery one Tuesday afternoon after school. She'd said she liked my new haircut. I was certain that meant I was in with a chance. She denied it afterwards though, said I was making it up. I know it happened though. Didn't matter though because she barely looked at me again, despite my new haircut and the other girls thought I was a bit of a creep after that. A few years later I saw her though. She'd married Danny Hart, another boy from our school and had a couple of kids. She did say sorry though, for telling everyone I hadn't kissed her. She hadn't wanted a relationship apparently.

I rounded the corner and stopped to take in the bizarre scene. Two young men, boys really, were stood in the middle of the road, one pointing a stick at another. A dozen or so others were in a similar position to me, watching the drama in front of us unfold. It wasn't the stick that had caught my attention though. It was the look on the boys face. Grief-stricken didn't cover it, nor did furious. There was an energy coming off him, something almost physical. I'd experienced nothing like it. The true and deep hatred he clearly had for the other man emanated from his every pore. I don't think I'd ever seen loss as etched onto a person's face as then.

The dark man at this point was shaking, truly shaking, in anger, the stick in his hand vibrating with energy as words began to form on his lips as, unbeknownst to him, the other man pointed his stick at the floor. At that point, to my great confusion I had the urge to shout a warning at the darker man, but before I could-

"Lily and James, Sirius, how could you?"

Both the dark haired man and I were shocked at this. I had assumed the Sirius character was the wronged in the argument. Clearly not. It was then that Sirius began to bellow something at the other man but it was too late, because that was when the bright light exploded from the other man's stick. It was odd at first, and strangely slow. A bright light that got closer quite gradually, though I knew I could not move. I felt as though it was, in reality, travelling extremely fast but my mind had slowed it down. I was very aware these were my last moments, and, bizarrely I thought ahead to what my funeral might be like. Who would the company send for me? I was right then; it was something you thought about on your way to death. Then I knew nothing.

**A/N: _Hello all, so the deal with this story is twelve different chapters, each an insight into one of the muggle's life. Hopefully you enjoy it. If not, sorry about that. It would be great to hear from you whether it's praise or criticism, although obviously I'd prefer praise. Thanks for reading._**


	2. Chapter 2

**2. Sarah McElroy**

"Just bloody leave it Mum, I'll see whoever like!" I said, slamming the door behind me as I stormed out of my mother's flat and stomped loudly down the staircase; I'd have got the lift but hanging around for it to show up (if it ever did) would have significantly weakened my dramatic exit and therefore my argument. Arguments with my Mum fit nicely into three categories. Number one was chores. Had I done them? When was I going to do them? Did I have any idea how little I was expected to do? Number two was work. Have you got a job yet? When are you going to get a job? Sarah, will you get off your arse and go down to the bloody Jobcentre and find something? And category three, my friends. Did you know Claire smokes? You're not seeing that boy again are you? Why don't you ever say hello to that nice girl down the hall? Now she _certainly_ doesn't smoke!

Today's argument was of course a category three and centred round the "that boy" end of things. The boy in question was Liam James, a mate of mine who'd been knocking around since year 9 and was indisputably my best friend. My mum historically is opposed to any friends I made at my secondary school between years 8 and 11 because they were a "corrupting influence" but privately I think the "corrupting" title probably belongs to me. Her opinion is largely based on what became affectionately known as the Cow Catastrophe of 1978 in which my friends and I broke into the school on the last day of year 11 and led a cow from a local urban farm up to the 6th form common room. We thought it would be funny, and indeed it was; it took three hours, five teachers, an angry farmer and a ramp to get the cow down. Unfortunately however, we were spotted by a local, reported to the school and told we wouldn't be allowed back next year. Mum moved us away shortly after.

I've never gone back to school to do my A levels and I have no doubt that's her greatest regret. As with many parents in our part of London, her utmost desire is to see me get a decent education, a good job and be able to move somewhere better. It is for that reason she resents me seeing Liam or anyone that she thinks stopped me finishing my education. It wasn't them that held me back though. The truth of the matter is, I wasn't particularly interested in getting straight As or anything like that then and I'm not really now. It's not that I'm not smart; I passed the 11+ and went to grammar school, I'm just not interested in doing two more years of rote learning and pointless testing for a desk job. What I'd really like to do is write but as I'm constantly being reminded, there's no such thing as aspirational thinking in crumbling council houses in the arsehole of London. What there is, if you don't get your qualifications, is the factory or secretarial work.

By this point, I'd battled my way onto the underground and was sandwiched between someone's disproportionately big backpack and an armpit. As the train juddered to a start I thanked my lucky stars I was only going two stops. I distracted myself from the smell of the underarm and the hacking of a young woman's faintly consumptive cough by reading the adverts plastered above our heads. Apparently I could feed six goats in Kenya and travel to Calais for about the same price. Who knew? Growing bored, I studied those around me, quickly becoming fixated on the gentle movement of an old man's nose hair as he breathed in and out. It was captivating in a strange fashion and I couldn't look away until he purposefully cleared his throat. I smiled in apology and looked down, continuing my journey in that fashion, losing myself in thoughts of seeing Liam later. It was odd I supposed looking forward to meeting someone you had a purely platonic relationship with so much but I did. There'd never really been anything romantic about me and Liam, or in our minds at least. Of course there'd been rumours but none of them were true. We met when some older boys were shaking him down for his lunch money and I pulled him out of the mud. We'd been basically inseparable since, or until Mum moved us away anyway. Liam was a trouble magnet. If there was a fight, Liam would be at its centre. If there was a party that got a bit too out of control, you could count on Liam to be there. I do see my mum's point but he never really asked for any of that. Smiley, cheeky and charming, people were drawn to him and I suppose trouble was too. There was never a dull moment with Liam about.

Battling my way up the escalator, there were butterflies in my stomach. He called me up the other day and asked me to meet him in this pub, said he had something to ask me. The pub was a bit out of the way but I found I really didn't care. I smiled to myself as I left the station, hesitating on the corner to get my bearings, distracted by thoughts of a wide smile, dark hair and bright eyes. Even the hammering rain couldn't dull my nervous excitement. Not that I fancied him or anything.

I turned my collar up against the rain, dodging out of the way of a man in a strange sort of dress thing sprinting past me and round the corner. He was clearly upset. I don't think I've ever seen someone that enraged and obviously broken before. Curious, I picked up my pace to see where this distressed man in a dress was going but as I turned into the street I didn't have time to blink before a wall of light hit me.


End file.
